


Winterfell 296

by darlingofthewesterlands



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9813749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingofthewesterlands/pseuds/darlingofthewesterlands
Summary: When Brienne, heiress to Evenstar Hotels, sees Renly Baratheon take silver at theWinter Games: The Eyrie 294, she runs off to Westeros' premier skiing resort, Winterfell. Two years on, and combining training with the local team and working part-time at a ski rental place, Brienne is still living in a constant state of daydream about making it as a skier. Oh, as long as Renly BAEratheon can witness her taking the gold medal in the women's Downhill.Jaime Lannister is one-half of the Lannister twins, the golden darlings of the slopes, and really, really angry when the airline loses his prized skis. Whilst his entourage look for it, he seeks some replacements...just to tie him over.Of all the ski rental shops in all the ski resorts in all of Westeros, he walks into hers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,
> 
> This is currently an addition to the JBO Meet-Cute March Fic Fest 2017, but will basically serve as the epilogue for a multi-chapter winter sports AU fic that I will be writing once I finish my novel-length fic [Stormlion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7067449/chapters/16064689).
> 
> The title Winterfell 296 refers to the location, and year, in the style of a Winter Games, like Pyeongchang 2018 or Grenoble 1968.
> 
> I had so much fun writing this, as its a huge change to the type of story I usually write, and I really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Comments and feedback are appreciated, as always.
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Darling x

The coffee was on, the inside storage areas unlocked and the tuning area staged. A lemon pastry, fresh from Hot Pies was waiting on the side for her when she was done. So far, she'd gone through all of the filing that Jeyne had jumbled up the day before, and was awaiting the string of returning customers that the Poole girl had waved off with too loose boots after accepting their amateur pleas of 'they're too tiiiiiight!' But for now, there was calm. A faint mist of snow was falling over Winter Town like the gentlest dusting of icing sugar on a cake. She stopped for a while and breathed it in, the cold tickling deep within her lungs, making her feel as pure and clean as the white all around her.

A horn tooted, making her leap out of her skin. "Good morning, my hardest worker! You really are all your father promised, Brienne!” Mikken shouted from his still dangerously-icy car, Mikken being the owner of ‘ _Mikken’s Ski Hire- Your one-stop shop in Winter Town for all things snow!’_ She waved back, but it was fruitless for he'd already gone. He was on his day off, she figured, but he was always on a bloody day off. Her, Jeyne, Hyle, Theon and the local politician’s son, Robb seemed to man the fort most days. Although Robb wasn't one of the proper workers. He only did one day a week, to keep him grounded, he had told her, with that solemn face of his.

It was only her and Hyle this morning, he out the back swearing and sweating because the work experience boy didn’t clean the ski grinding machine properly. Last she looked, he had a spatula from the staffroom kitchen inside it, trying to unstick a mechanism that had become...stuck. She did not stop to ask why. She'd most like have to call a professional in later.

Brienne would not dwell on that for now. She zipped her fleece up to her chin and tried to bury her head in the fur lining as much as she could. Although a pretty frosting was now falling, a thick blanket of fresh snow had collapsed on the roofs and pathways the night before, and with it came the chill, a chill that she felt deep in her bones.

"Good morning, Brienne!" Her co-worker’s mother, Cat, waved as she walked by, leggy and lovely in sleek black leggings and a hooded shadowcat coat. Her red hair streamed behind her, from under her ostentatiously fluffy earmuffs. In one hand, she held a cup of coffee, most like some sugar-free creation, special blend, extra hot with peppermint syrup. Wisps of steam escaped from the lid like cigarette smoke. In her other hand, was her pretty teenage daughter, Sansa, a young ice skater who was bundled up as appropriately as her mother.

“Morning, my lady!” Brienne replied, beaming with the fact that someone was paying her attention. Truth be told, she'd a rampant girl-crush on the woman and sometimes daydreamed during rare moments of peace in the cleaning cupboard that she was one of her daughters. She'd be fair and rich and growing up surrounded by snow. She regularly saw all of the Starks bundled up in the gondola on weekends, all with megawatt smiles apart from Cat's stepson, Jon, who'd be with randoms in the cabin behind.

 _I'd even be her hated stepdaughter_ , she thought wistfully, if it meant being here, growing up here. Winterfell was the jewel in the crown on Westerosi skiing, the Mountains of the Moon in second place, but still leagues and leagues behind. Brienne had grown up on Tarth, where surf and sail reigned supreme. She was bloody good at both, but her true love was the snow- she'd spent her preteen years under her duvet with cocoa watching WestoSports, even when the sun burned dry and hot outside.

That was when she first saw Renly Baratheon, at his first Winter Games, taking silver in the combined. Dashing, smiling, _approachable_ , tossing his coal black curls with a smile that crinkled right up to the untanned skin behind his goggles. _What a gentleman._ Not like the rowdy surfers who frequented her father's beach and hotel, in the hunt of the best surf. Skiing was classy, refined. A sport of dapper men with impeccable manners, garbed in expensive direwolf parkas, who cut through the snow as easily as a sword through a cake. She could surf with the best of them and had won regattas in her youth, so she'd try her hand at skiing. A new challenge. Excitement rippled through her as she boarded her Arryn Airways flight, one-way, with her skis in the hold. She felt free, she felt...daring. And if she was to meet Renly one day at a Winter Games, serving Team Stormlands alongside him, that would make it all the sweeter.

That was how she found herself at Winterfell. Her father, so full of guilt for the random string of women that he had paraded through her life, allowed her to head North with a generous monthly allowance and a glowing recommendation that got her this part-time gig. She traded sand for snow, her surfboard for skis and her castle for a cramped studio with a two-ring hob and a cactus. She spent three days here, which meant four days up on the mountain and even some of her work evenings, as long as Jeyne didn't mess up the orders whilst she was daydreaming about Theon Greyjoy and his terrible squid tattoo. She worked hard, and listened, familiarising herself with equipment, learning to tune and fix her own gear and even getting the chance to demo some of the new arrivals. If there was time enough her to daydream about Renly Baratheon, she'd allow herself to.

She'd read on VARYZ.com that he was due to travel to Winterfell soon, to celebrate his birthday in what Varys promised would be a weekend of Arbor Gold, fun, frolics and general debauchery. Perhaps....perhaps, she'd see him? Maybe? Brienne had conveniently ignored the fact that his rumoured girlfriend was due to join them, even though it was not like that she would steal him away.

“Brie? Brie? You're being a right Dolly Daydream today, are you in there?"

"I am not a...Dolly Daydream," she fumbled at the change bags, trying to tear them open with her short nails. When all else failed, she turned to her teeth.

"Are you going to come for a cheeky pint after work, Brie?"

"A cheeky pint? What’s happening?” She frowned, praying to the Seven above that she hadn’t agreed to someone’s birthday. She wanted to clock out on time, get a few hours of slalom practice in, then be completely horizontal with cereal for dinner and trash TV.

“Nothing,” he looked up at her absurdly. "It just seems bizarre that we're here half the week, and we don't really know each other."

"I don't wish to know you beyond you doing your job and getting these flyers out to all the hotels. Roose at the Dreadfort will flay us both alive and wear our skins as salopettes if his patrons miss out on our ' _rent our skis, get your boots free!'_ offer. "

He scoffed, scratching the scar on his cheek. "Come on, it's not like you've got any better offers."

"More like you haven't got any better offers," she cocked a brow. "I saw Alys Karstark chuck her pint all over you at the Smoking Log last weekend. Besides, I don't want any offers..." _I want Renly to see me have a gold medal put around my neck, for Team Stormlands. Brienne Tarth, gold medallist for the downhill, pipping Cersei Lannister to the post and putting her in second place._

She snapped out her daydream, but he'd already sighed and walked off with a stack of flyers, leaving her alone with her Hot Pie's breakfast pastry and the company of the retractable ski pass holders.

“Be a mate and move, won’t you.....Kyle?” She heard a voice sneer and the clanging of the shop bell, ringing as loud and resounding as any sept.

She heard a thud, and for a moment thought she was being robbed of her change float and facial suncream. Her heart leapt out of her chest, but when she turned, it was only Hyle pummelling his fists on the window. Shouting and leaping up and down and carping something or other.

“Go on, do the bloody flyers,” she groused, waving her hands.

Hyle continued to scream, jabbing and thumping, but Brienne found herself distracted. A man strode into her view, dangerously dressed in white from head to toe. In the case of an avalanche, they wouldn't be able to tell snow from skiwear. From behind his hood, sumptuously lined with snowbear, golden curls peeked out; framing his face like feathers.

She wiped the crumbs from her pastry on her jogging bottoms, clapping her hands of grease. Mikken would be on her case if he saw someone so visibly affluent on the CCTV and she opted to chomp through carbohydrates instead of up-selling.

Brienne could not see his brows from behind his dark glasses, but she could guess that they were furrowed.

"Of course I bloody have travel insurance," he groaned into his phone. "...but that does not help me now, does it? What does it look like? Are you honestly asking me that, again? I've told you. I've told you before, I checked it in, it's a red ski bag, large. Clearly labelled, with a sign saying 'These contents are priceless so don't lose this bag or I'll cut off your hands'? Yes? Oh, gods, Can you hold one moment? Thanks. Cersei, hello, what is it?"

Cersei? An uncommon name, she’d only heard of one. Cersei Lannister, the snow lioness of the Westerlands. Graceful, but aggressive on the snow, she competed in the Super-G and Downhill; she had nearly as many gold medals as strands of golden curls on her head.

His voice dropped to a whisper, and Brienne found herself creeping closer to hear him. "Eh? Don't be like that," he groaned. "Of course, I want to see you, of course, I do. What? Is Robert in the pub already? Are Tommen and Cella in ski school?”

Brienne’s mouth gaped open as her tongue clumsily fumbled about her teeth, looking for traces of leftover lemon pastry. That was the name of Cersei’s husband and Cersei’s children. She knew from the reruns of Keeping up with the Baratheons that were played over and over again, in Donyse’s salon, where she ventured occasionally for a cut and blow-dry.

“Shall I collect them for you? We could all go for a hot chocolate or…” from in between the shelves, Brienne could see a grin spread across his face that was quickly extinguished. “Ah. Yes. I thought you’d say that. No, nothing is wrong, sweet sister.”

Sweet sister? If Cersei Lannister was his sister, then he must be...

"So I can't meet you with the children, but I can meet you alone? When? Now? Right now? But, but you only landed-...ah, ok. Alright. Let me sort out this huge buggering nightmare, and I’ll-“

Aghhh, she couldn’t hear him. Why was she even bloody following him? She tentatively climbed up on the next shelf, for a line of unbuffered hearing, but no sooner did she loose her foot when she slipped; bringing down a mountain of skis on top of her.

"I'll call you back,” she heard a voice groan. “Immediately, I swear it. I’ll call you back faster than I’ve ever called anyone back before. Love you. Bye.” Hands moved the skis away from her, and into view came none other than Cersei’s twin brother, Jaime Lannister. Just as beautiful, just as majestic on a pair of skis and just as scandalous.

"Seven hells, are you alright?” He outstretched a suede-gloved hand.

 _Gods, why did I stalk him around the shelves?_ She felt foolish, taken in by the cult of celebrity; like the ski groupies who would come and wait at the bottom of the slopes for Renly in furry headbands and furrier boots. Clutching mulled wine and snapping selfies for Instagram. #itsahardlife. #blessed. #snowdaze. #renlyBAEratheon. She certainly did not want to be Jaime Lannister’s groupie. She’d heard nothing but terrible rumours, and if anyone would judge her for believing rumours, a ‘not proven’ verdict in his murder case at King’s Landing Crown Court was damning enough. His father's lawyers were the only thing stopping it from being a resounding 'guilty'.

"I'm fine," she said, blushing crimson, despite her disdain for him. "It was just a pair of skis."

"It was a load of bloody skis," Jaime said, hauling her up. "There you are, wench," he laughed, "you can tell all of your friends that Jaime Lannister saved you. I'll even pose for a selfie...if you wish."

"I won't be telling anyone," she grumbled over the click-clacking of the skis that she was fumbling to pick up, putting back in her place.

"So considerate, I could deal without the paparazzi-"

"That's not the reason that I won't be telling them,"

"Oh?" Jaime Lannister's green eyes flashed with curiosity. Brienne looked at the floor as she slid the last pair of skis back into the rack, as to avert his gaze. "And why won't you?"

"You know exactly why, Mr Lannister," she sighed, as she began to walk back to the till. Mikken would have dragon eggs if she left it unattended for too long.

Then she could hear Jaime padding after her, in his snowbear boots. His face screwed up in rage.

"Pyke 291?" He scanned over her chest, studying the old t-shirt she'd found wedged between the wall and staffroom sofa, and had taken to wearing. "You weren't bloody old enough to remember Pyke 291."

"Spare me, Mr Lannister." she rolled her eyes. "You didn't even attend The Winter Games in Pyke, you were still being investigated for Aerys Targaryen's mysterious death."

"Indeed I was," he smirked. "And in that time, I was judged and scorned by lawyers, politicians, industry officials....some damning words from a Winterfell ski shop wench does not exactly make me tremble in my snow boots."

The shop bell rang and in piled a handsome Dornishman and four small girls, they nodded to Brienne and went straight to the helmets. "Welcome to Mikken's Ski Shop- your one-stop shop for all things snow!" She called to them, to Jaime's shock.

"Are you...are you ignoring me, wench?" His eyes widened.

"The Others take you, I'm a customer!"

Indeed she was. Brienne slid off her swivel chair and leant forward to tidy the tubes of lip balm.

"Okay, alright, alright. You are no fan of mine, I can accept that. I can-"

"I don't need you to accept it," she replied, blankly. Despite her front, she'd be lying if she did not fear him getting her fired. Alas, she could get another job, in heartbeat. Stood before her was the man that had dragged her sport into disrepute, and she would not hide her feelings.

"Gods, what a bizarre wench you are. Any resort I go to, I'm swarmed with adoration, and with people wanting my photographs, regardless of what I may or may not have done. I've taken literally only twelve paces in this shit place, saving a maiden from falling sports equipment in the process, yet still, a frosty reception. Is this what they mean by the cold, cold North?"

"I've never heard that phrase."

“Oh, not a Northern lass? Hmm, no, you’re not, are you? The more you bleat and bleat, the more I can hear it. Am I hearing…some Stormlander in there?”

“Well, ye-”

“I fucking hate Stormlanders," his voice cut like a knife. "My brother-in-law is one. An awful brute and I don’t think much of their climate either.”

How dare he? How dare he judge an entire region on the account of a loutish brother-in-law? Renly was his brother-in-law too, brother to Robert, born and raised in Storm’s End, with not a bit of brute in him.

“Then you haven’t been to Tarth.”

“Ah, a Tarth are we?”

“My homeland, and my family name.”

“Your family name?” He spluttered. “Your father must be Selwyn Tarth, of Evenstar Hotels?”

“How did you-”

“I know,” he said, in mock anguish. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that someone as devastatingly beautiful as me would have such wiles. I know everyone, wench. Now, I find it fascinating that you’d be so judgemental about me given the fact that Daddy’s money is most like keeping you here. Not the most luxurious, I have to say, but Winterfell is not a cheap resort either. Fannying around for a few days a week won’t cover rent up here either.”

"I don't fanny around. I'm a skier."

"A skier, eh?" He glanced her up and down. "I had you more as an ice hockey player, the goalie, mayhaps. You've the build for it. Only the Clegane Brothers of the Westerlands Lions are taller than you. What's your event?"

"Downhill."

"What's your time on the Winterfell course?"

"2.03.61."

"Bollocks."

"2.03.61!"

"Saying it again doesn't make it any less bollocks, wench."

"I'm telling it true," she protested. "Go check the records at the clubhouse."

"Bah! As if I've got the time to bloody do that, but..." he raised a golden eyebrow in a way that made her blush. Gods, they were perfect. He probably threaded. "If you're not a complete liar, faster than my sister. Almost faster than me. Do you have a team?

"I ski for Winterfell at the moment. Regional competitions. I need to get my edit put together, and then, I'll see if I can get sponsored." Robb had promised to do some filming for her, once they had a free day together. And Jon would probably edit it if she asked nicely. She'd heard from Robb that he generally holed himself up in his room, making fan theory videos for his favourite fantasy book series; and although everything he sprouted was complete tinfoil, BlackCrow283 had the best graphics.

"Why would you fuck about doing that, wench, if you're that fast? You needn't go cap in hand to energy drink companies, just get the SSA to come up and see you, or enter their competitions. That will feed into the Winter Games squad if that's what you wish. SSA is the Stormlands Ski Association if you-"

"I know what the SSA is," she replied, not able to stop her voice dripping in haughtiness.

"Oh, know it all do you? Then you should know that you're too old,"

"Too old? I'm sixteen!"

"Do you have any videos of you?"

"As sneering fodder, Mr Lannister? I can see that you think I'm absurd."

"Might be fodder of a different description, wench," he grinned, flashing his perfect teeth. It took her far too long to work out what he was joking about.

"You're....you're disgusting. I'm _sixteen._ "

"And you're taller than me," he shrugged. "Swings and bloody roundabouts. Come on, I'm jesting with you. Do you have any videos?"

Reluctantly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, flicking through her album until she found a suitable video. Not her fastest time, and wouldn't show her full talents, but enough sharp-yet-graceful turns at the end of a run to prove she wasn't some great lumbering beast. He watched it, fighting a smile on his face. She couldn't bear it. It was a mistake to show him, a mistake to let herself be mocked by the likes of him.

"Not bad."

"For a wench?" She batted away the beginnings of tears with her eyelashes, snatching her phone away and shoving it back into the safety of her pocket.

"Nope, just not bad. Not bad at all. You're still too old, though. My father, you may know him, Tywin Lannister, twelve gold medals across three disciplines, he's rather decorated, my father shoved me down the Pendric Hills when I was three, three I tell you. Cersei and I have been on snow as soon as we could walk. When I was your age, I was already one of the seven men representing Westeros at the Planetos games."

"And that didn't end so well, did it?" She fired.

"World ban," he scoffed. "I can still compete here, and that's what I am preparing for right now-"

"Is that what the other skiers are here for? To prepare?"

"Didn't think a girl as homely as you would be into celebrity gossip, thought you'd leave that to simpler, prettier girls. Alas, you've caught me with my sword in the king's back. I tell a lie. Renly Baratheon's birthday weekend, the awful little dandy that he is."

"If he's so awful," she heard her voice cracking, "why are you here?"

"He's family, and probably my favourite of my brothers-in-law. Best of a truly awful bunch. It would not do if I didn't show my face. Now, I need to ski, so I can take part the apres-ski. After the phone call that I've just had, I want a maester to take my blood tomorrow and to find that its 90% Dornish Red. Now, sell me your wares, wench."

"Are you racing today, or do you just want standard mountain skis?" She obliged, through gritted teeth, leading him back to the counter.

"Not sure yet," he called behind her, like some awful mopey child.

"What size do you want?"

"Guess."

"Seven hells," she rolled her eyes.

"Come on, ski wench. Guess."

"Ski wench?"

"I want your expert opinion."

 _Expert opinion._ Talking to him made her feel a silly girl. Even the pleasure skiers had been on snow longer than she had. Alas, he told her to guess, so guess she would. Brienne took a step back, her snow boots squelching on the lino behind her. She studied him. He was tall, but not as tall as her. An accomplished skier as well, for all his crimes, and she could tell he was lithe and lean below his clothes, rather than brawny. _Why are you thinking what he looks like beneath his clothes?_

"193s.." she said, after some time.

A smile spread across his face; a gleaming smile that crept up to his high cheekbones. "A gold star for wenchy-wench. Well done."

Feeling herself blush, she turned behind her and looked for the correctly sized pair. The numbers were moving and she kept reading them wrong, so she darted backwards and forth between the shelves before pulling out the skis from the racks.

"Mother above, gods no," he wailed, horrified. "Do you want me to ski like some cripple?"

"A bad labourer blames his tools, my father always said," she sighed. “These?” She held up a pair of Tridents, a solid brand and definitely not cheap to buy new, in black and yellow.

"The others take you if you think you're putting me on those,"

"What on earth is wrong with them?"

"Doesn't go with the rest of my get up," he gestured to his parka, diamond-white.

She did not hide her displeasure but thought she'd best appease him so he'd be out of her hair as soon as possible. Brienne yanked the wheeled ladder towards her, climbing up it to reach a pair of Dayne 85 Cti + XT 22s in white and gold.

"Will these do?"

"They'll more than do."

"Do you need boots?"

"Do you want to give me a foot massage?” He grinned.

"No," she stumbled. "No, I most certainly do not want to give you a foot massage."

"Can I borrow yours?" Before she knew it he was reaching down towards the rack at the foot of the desk, picking up her own 'Brienne'-tipexed battered boots that really needed replacing. "Mother above, we're the same bloody size!" His laughter quelled after some time, and all that was left was his emerald gaze, heavy on her.

The overdoor bell chimed through the shop and an elderly gentleman rushed in, wearing ski garb that looked like it hadn't been changed since Aegon's Conquest. "Ser, ser!"

"Want an autograph, Pycelle?" He said, his eyes still skimming over every freckle on her face. She closed her mouth, overcome with some bizarre fear of him noticing her horsey teeth. Why did she care?

“An autograph, oh, Ser. Your humour never fails to bring a smile to my face. I hope to see a smile on yours, for young Peck has found your bag. It was-“

“It matters not how he found it,” he said, still not breaking eye contact with her. “I’m just rather pleased that they are found. Wench, I-"

“My name is-"

“Brienne,” he leant over and flicked her name badge. “From Tarth?”

He unzipped the bag, and out of the red folds of fabric came the most magnificent pair of skis that she’d ever seen. Narrow as needles, with black and red paintwork. And the length, she'd never seen skis so long. You'd need to be strong, some marvel on the snow, to handle them. Jaime Lannister handed one over to her.

Her breath caught in her throat, as her fingers danced over the flat of them. “These, these are Valyrian’s Oathkeeper 300s. I mean, these are the Oathkeeper 300s. There is only one pair in the world.”

He chuckled, his stare still dancing over her face with an expression that Brienne could only describe as pure curiosity. "For now, I have the prototype."

“Cutting edge, sports technology,” she recalled, remembering an article that she had read the week before. "They managed to sandwich an ironwood core between two sheets of Valyrian steel with geometric sections to both reduce weight...all whilst maintaining torsional strength."

"Erm, I suppose," he said, laughing at her. She immediately felt stupid. _He's Jaime Lannister. This is not a big deal to him._ "I don't really know. I leave that to the sports scientists to work out and tell me-"

"Oh..."

"Please, though, do go ahead. You clearly know more about them than I do."

Feeling like she had permission, she fondled the end of it. "They're weighted with their same trademarked steel, to maximise snow contact, aren't they?"

"I guess..." he said, amused. "Can I borrow a screwdriver? I haven't fitted them to my boots yet."

"I can do it...Ser. Do you have your boots?"

"Allow me, please. Although," he gave her his smartphone. "Take a picture of me doing it? For my Instagram?"

"You have Instagram?" She snorted, it was her turn to laugh at him.

"Am I too old for it, or something?"

"You said I was too old to ski."

"Hmm. I am a bitter old man, wench."

She reached into her pocket and handed him a screwdriver, and watched his hands dance nimbly over the bindings, working quickly. _Nice hands_ , she thought. For a man, anyway. Long fingered, and tanned with rounded and smooth fingers nails. She balled her bitten, blue-glitter-chipped stumps into her fist, and continued to watch him work. When he was done, he zipped the bag and made his way for the door, leaving the skis behind.

Brienne scrambled to his feet, noting that he was really leaving. "Ser, your skis?"

Jaime shrugged his shoulders, pulling his dark shades down over his eyes. "I don't want them anymore."

"What?"

"WHAT?" The man who had accompanied him shrieked.

"You have them."

"Me? Me have them? I have them? What?"

"What?"

"Or sell them, so you can stop working in this shit place, poor little rich girl wench," he shrugged once more, his strong shoulders rising and falling within his swan-feathered parka. "I don't give an iron bob about them."

He made for the door, both his protestors chasing after him, Brienne leaving the till open in her haste.

"Ser..." Brienne heard the man whimpering as they made for the red sports car that was parked outside. "These skis are beyond price, your father-"

"I don't care what father thinks."

"You should listen to him, Ser." Brienne called, still clutching them.

Jaime turned to face her, ignoring his companion. His face was twisted into a smirk, his smile near-cruel beneath the golden stubble about his jaw. "'A bad labourer blames his tools’, your words wounded me, wench. Well, you can't blame these tools. If you don't make the team, once you contact the SSA, it's entirely on you-"

She did not understand, clutching them as helplessly as she did her straw dolls growing up. Was he joking? _He must be joking._ Why would he do her this kindness? Some ski-wench he met ten minutes ago? She'd have to find out.

"What's your game, Mr Lannister?" She asked, angrily, angry at his games and doublespeak. One of the prized skis cut deep into the soft flesh of her arm. "Do you think I'm going to contact the _White Raven_ and tell them how the infamous Jaime Lannister took pity on some shop girl, to try and recover some of your...your...shattered honour?"

"I didn't think anything of the sort," he tutted, not even glancing at her. He opened the car doors with a click of a remote and slid into the driver's seat, stopping to examine himself in the mirror.

"I don't understand!" She cried after him, as he turned on the ignition and began to reverse out of the car park. She staggered after her flaxen hair sticking to her face, hot with embarrassment. “I…can’t….accept this!"

"Oh you'll have to, or I'll need to bin them," he called from the window, his golden curls blowing lazily in the breeze. "The length is all wrong for me."

"But-"

"Call the SSA, that's the-"

"Stormlands Skiing Association, I know."

He sped off, leaving her in the snow, cradling the Oathkeepers like they were newborn babes. Twins, like him and his sister. After five minutes, or five hours of her skimming the paintwork with her calloused hands, Hyle tapped her on the shoulder, his hazel eyes twinkling in his reddened face.

"So, what did he buy?"

"Who?" She asked, still dazed. Snow had melted through her jogging bottoms, and the toes of her snowboots but she did not care for its icy kiss.

"Jaime Lannister, Jaime fucking Lannister, who else?! I was banging on the window, pointing him out. Gods, Brienne, don't tell me that you didn't recognise him."

"No," she said quietly, running her fingers up and down the edges of her...gift. "I recognised him alright."


End file.
